


hands up

by seven-stitches (Nagaem_C)



Series: Touch and Go [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Erotica, F/M, First Dates, Flirting, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/seven-stitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You thought you'd embarrassed yourself, but the sexy DI had given you his card, all the same. What could it hurt, to give him a call—and see how your fantasy measures up to the real thing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands up

**Author's Note:**

> Posted as part of the #Gravesgiving festivities on Tumblr. Because who doesn't want a little more of this guy? ;)

  
**_hands up_**  
\--------------

 

The call is answered on the third ring.

"This is Inspector Lestrade."

You stammer over your name, and then hurriedly tack on, "...from Wallerman Jewellers. You gave me your card?"

"Ah, yes," he says, echoing your greeting, and you swear the sound of your own name has never before made you weak in the knees. "Have you remembered something related to the case?"

"No. Not exactly." It's taken you three full days to talk yourself into contacting him; somehow you'd never considered the possibility that he'd actually expect you to give him a _tip_.

"Not exactly?"

Had he not been flirting, after all? Had you only imagined that, fresh from your runaway fantasy? "Not at all," you admit, rolling your eyes skyward in embarrassment.

His voice shifts slightly in timbre; he doesn't sound quite as officially polite when he continues. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, then?"

_Just spit it out!_ "I'd hoped you might like to go out and get something together." You swallow hard and add, "Tonight?"

"Well! That sounds like a _fine_ idea; I'm just finishing up, here at the office. But it's past eight o'clock," he points out. "Don't know about you, but I've already had dinner..."

"Me, too."

"Drinks it is, then. I know a good club in Shepherd's Bush, we can meet up there."

 

.

 

You don't allow yourself the opportunity to second-guess yourself and back out; it's been a long, long time since you've done anything so impulsive. The minute you're satisfied with your appearance you hurry out of your flat and hail a cab, spending the ride in nervous anticipation.

What is it about this DI, that's got you so bothered? In three days of indecision, you've managed to torment yourself repeatedly with the memory of meeting him...imagining his hands on you, his voice in your ear...the sounds he might make, when he loses control...

And now you've done it again. As you step out at the kerb and pay your fare, you realise you're already feeling the beginnings of a dampness between your thighs. The knowledge heats your cheeks, especially when you see the man who's caused it coming your way.

He's looking even better than you remember, a black dress shirt and charcoal trousers setting off the sparks of silver in his hair to devastating effect.

"Evening," he grins, caressing the pronunciation of your name once again—how does he _do_ that?—and extending an arm to usher you into the nightclub. "You look incredible tonight."

"You don't look half bad yourself," you reply, finding your absent confidence returning with the sincerity of his compliment. "Do you always go to work dressed so well?"

"Sadly, no. I changed before coming over—is it wrong to admit I live very close by?"

"Not unless you didn't want me to know." You look over the crowd and decide, "Drinks first, then we'll find seats. Get me a Tom Collins, could you? I don't fancy my chances getting the barman's attention."

He looks at you askance, as if to say _who wouldn't pay attention to you,_ and your cheeks flush a little as he turns towards the bar.

Once you've both got drinks, you weave together through the milling crowd of patrons and manage to snag a little corner table open near the back wall, with two padded stools. He takes the one closest to the wall, and you situate yourself atop the other; it's just barely tall enough that your toes don't touch the floor.

You _mean_ for there to be conversation, and for a little while you're both honestly trying, but the place is packed and loud, so that you have to raise your voices to be heard. As well, the music features a catchy and distracting bass rumble that keeps switching your mind off what you were trying to say. He's enjoying the music, too—at least, he's tapping his fingers lightly on his glass in rhythm. It sends your mind straight to your fantasies, all over again.

When a passing couple unwittingly jostles your elbow on their way towards the back hallway, he frowns. "Here," he says, and reaches down to grasp the seat of your stool and scoot it in towards him, spreading his knees wide to make room for you. Now you're well out of the way of the traffic flow; you've also got your back pressed up against his front—one of his hands has stayed at the stool, as if to steady it, and just the side of one thumb is grazing your hip.

You turn your head to thank him, and find that he's got his head dipped near yours to hear you better. It would barely be a movement to nuzzle into his neck, or nip at his jaw; the dark, spicy scent of his cologne is heady, this close.

"This all right?" he asks, and now you've got no trouble hearing him—his deep voice is sending vibrations through your spine.

"More than," you manage, dropping your hand to brush over that sly thumb.

"Mm, I quite like it too. Sorry the club is so crowded, though. I haven't been here in a long time; I guess it's gotten more popular."

"It's fine." Rather than crane your neck around to see him, you gaze out at the laughing, dancing people before you. Sipping at your drink, you find your fingertips unconsciously tracing his knuckles, playing back and forth as you ask, "You usually pick other places, then? Or do you just not go out much?"

"The latter. It's been ages since I've had a date," he says, and laughs. "And now I just sound pathetic, don't I?"

The self-deprecating comment would simply be amusing, in any other setting, you think. Here, though, with the pounding beat, and his warmth at your back, and the feeling of his thumb and forefinger shifting restlessly under your touch...it stirs something deep and wanting in you.

He's not pathetic, no. Somehow you can't see this man being denied much of what he asks for.

"You have a lot on your mind," you guess. "Tough job...long hours..."

But he has to let himself ask for it, to get it...and you're willing to bet he denies himself _plenty_.

He nods; you can feel the movement in your hair. "Not exactly easy, keeping up a relationship." The admission comes out tentatively, and you can feel him beginning to tense in indecision—pull away and save face, or ride with it?

The power is all yours, you realise. And for once in your life, you really, _really_ want to use it.

You hum and shift your weight into him a bit, closing your hand over his to pull it from the stool to your hip. "Relationships are overrated," you murmur, and as he tips his head low to listen you tilt yours up, letting your lips shape your words against the tender hollow beneath his jaw. "Sometimes you just need comfort."

"Oh...I could do with some comfort," he responds, sounding vaguely stunned. "But, ah. Wouldn't want you thinking I was..."

"You don't think I am, either—do you?" Your voice comes out husky, taut with the awareness that this is an uncharacteristically bold move for you, but you're rewarded with a slow squeeze of his fingers.

"God, no. You're just _hot_ ," he growls beneath the insistent thump of the music, and you smile.

"You said you live close?"

"Yeah." He lets out an unsteady breath at the feel of your lips on his throat.

" _How_ close?"

 

.

 

The walk is less than five minutes, barely long enough for your ears to stop their faint ringing. On the way, he makes another attempt at casual conversation, but neither of you is really thinking about the topic you're discussing. Every word hums with the mutual knowledge of what's to come. The building anticipation is turning your senses up, so that the merest graze of his touch sets you to tingling, and you can't resist playing with the sensation: slipping your arm through the crook of his elbow, swaying casually into his side while stepping off kerbs, stroking your fingertips along the sleeve of his shirt.

At his doorstep, you stand aside in the little alcove; he slips a key into the lock, but doesn't turn it. "You know, you don't have to come in," he says, holding himself still, angled away from your eyes. "I'm not expecting anything—"

"Greg." 

It gets his attention, and he turns to find you up close, reaching out to toy with his open collar.

"This is where I want to be, okay?" You lean up on your toes to kiss him, just a brief, testing press of your lips—and you're surprised by the gusting breath that escapes him as you draw away. His reserve cracks all at once; he grasps your upper arms and finds your mouth again, hot and insistent.

You let your hands slide over his chest, then up and around the back of his neck, clasping them together. Your eyes have shut, but you feel one of his hands drop away to grope at something behind you, and then the door creaks open and he's guiding you backwards in careful steps, still not breaking the kiss.

He bumps the door closed as he clears the threshold, and in the next moment he pivots and slides both his hands up your arms, pulling your linked hands up over his head—you gasp and open your eyes as he pins your wrists gently against the wall, raised high.

Holding them there, he pulls back to look at you with a searching, intense expression. "I know I already said, but I have to be clear. I'm not usually like this, you know? I really, truly don't go 'round picking people up."

"I don't go 'round _getting_ picked up," you tell him, gazing up at him defiantly. "And tonight I don't care."

His eyes flash in the dim light filtering in through his door panes; with a closed smile, he shifts his grip so that his left hand alone pinions both your wrists, leaving his right free to move. "Well, then, this _is_ something special, isn't it. I should make it worth your while..."

Shivering at the sensation of a finger tracing a whisper-soft line down the bare skin of your inner arm, you can only nod wordlessly, watching with a sort of breathless awe as his expression shifts in the shadows.

His touch skips lightly from the short sleeve of your button-down blouse to the curve of your cheek, and it's so close to your fantasy that your eyes flutter closed once more and you let out a stifled whimper—you turn your head to catch and drag his fingertips against your lips, unable to stop yourself from squirming a little in his teasing, non-restrictive hold.

"Fuck," he breathes, "that's _gorgeous_ —" Suddenly both his large, strong hands are gently bracketing your neck, cradling your face like something precious and tilting it up to be kissed. He smells of spice, he tastes of gin; his tongue is sweet and slick and talented, pulling small sounds from the back of your throat that you're not sure you've ever made fully clothed. You let your freed arms fall around his waist, and you follow him blindly as he gradually backs away from the wall.

When you open your eyes again you're in a new room, someplace far darker than the front hall; he pats at your hands reassuringly, steps away from you, stumbles with a muffled curse before switching on a small lamp across the room.

It's a decorative piece, on a side table next to a sturdy upholstered reading chair: a small polished base supporting a fluted column of slubbed ochre-coloured silk. By its warm, soft light you can see that you're standing beside a sofa, flanked by its own more utilitarian light fixtures, but you approve of his choice. This syrupy amber glow is more than enough to see his face as he returns to where you stand and pauses to look you up and down with obvious pleasure. You're studying him, too: taking the time to admire his broad shoulders and dark beckoning eyes and slow-growing smile, and those nimble, thick fingers that had drawn your attention from the start...they're working open his top few buttons, revealing a wedge of tanned skin scattered with dark hair, and you smooth your palms down your sides, moistening your lips as you watch.

He hums, low in his throat. Abandoning work on his own shirt, he reaches out to begin carefully teasing open the small rhinestone buttons of your satin blouse instead, slowly, telegraphing his moves with his eyes as if he fears you'll stop him at any moment. "It's been a bloody long time since anyone's looked at me like that," he tells you.

"Like what?" You don't stop him, but you sink down onto the sofa to spare your trembling-tense knees, and he follows, still working at the buttons.

"Like you've imagined everything you want me to do to you..." He spreads your blouse open wide, pausing to take in the sight of your lacy bra, then raises his eyes to yours with a heated smile. "And now it's on me to live up to your expectations."

"So far I'd say you're pretty good," you reply, with a half-laugh to break the bubble of shivering tension that's rising in your core.

He shifts close, and you obligingly lean back. "Pretty good," he declares, the words muffled in a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your chest, "is not...good... _enough_."

 

.

 

It is good, though—God, it's _fantastic_. By the time Greg's slipped your skirt off and begun mouthing at the edges of your knickers in leisurely fashion, you're letting out quiet, choppy moans on each shaky exhale. His fingers are kneading your thighs in lazy motions, creeping upwards slowly and steadily. Although he seems quite content to take his time, the sight of him watching your reactions from between your legs, his silvery hair disarrayed and his eyes heavy-lidded with desire, kindles a sudden feeling of urgency in you.

He reads it in your expression almost before you realise it's there. "Yeah," he whispers, stilling. "Tell me what you want."

"Up here," you pant, plucking weakly at his hands, and he wastes no time, kneeling up and fitting himself in alongside you as you squirm sideways to make room. You start with his shirt, fumbling at the remaining buttons before pushing it off his shoulders. His arm curves around your back, reaching and pressing, and soon your bra is off, tossed away with your blouse—his skin is warm against you, his breath is hot on your neck as he pulls you in close.

"So _lovely_ ," he says, a steamy breath at the shell of your ear, and you can feel the rough sweetness of his voice run like a bolt of electricity to the base of your spine. The fine fabric of his trousers is a delicious texture against your bare skin as his knee moves between your legs, a restless urging like small waves lapping a shoreline, and you can't help moving to match it.

When he draws his head away to look at you, you catch his roaming, caressing hand and pull it up to your lips, marvelling at the way his touch seems to ignite tingling sparks at each point of contact. You meet his eyes coyly as you pull two thick fingers in to suck, taking your time to fully enjoy the solid sensation of the mouthful, and judging by the strangled noise he makes it's as much a realisation of his fantasies as it is of your own.

His hips jerk against yours as you let your tongue flicker along his fingers, and you release him with a satisfied hum; not to be outdone, he immediately sends his hand skimming down past your waist, working those damp fingers beneath the elastic of your knickers, pulling them over your hips and down. When he makes contact at last you find your own hips jumping, shocked into gasping motion by the burst of sensitivity. His expression is one of untempered delight at your strong reaction; it's the last thing you see before your eyes fall shut and the two of you crash together in a searing kiss.

His breath is coming as quickly as yours, mingling with the tiny cries you can't hold back. He urges your mouth open wider, chasing the sounds of your pleasure with his tongue, while his fingers push upwards to coax more from you.

Dizzy with sensation, you slide your own hand over the fast rise and fall of his chest: following the enticing trail of soft hair lower, tucking in between where your bellies touch. He grunts and sucks in a long breath when your fingers find his fly and unfasten it; you pull the zip as gently as you can, mindful of the twitching of his trapped length.

His pants are damp and straining tight over him, and he lets out a shaky groan as you slip the waistband carefully down to release him and take him in hand. He's rock-hard, practically leaping in your light grasp; when you tighten your fingers he hisses against your lips and rotates his wrist, setting his thumb to circling. You feel like a spring, coiled tight and trembling.

He peppers quick, heedless kisses across your cheek and jaw, then throws his head back as you start to work your hand along him. You find his collarbone and nip at it, licking into the hollow along the top of his shoulder; against the sofa, he pushes his trapped arm to curl around from beneath you and press you closer.

Hooking your ankle around his leg gives you leverage to guide his hand in deeper, and another long, low cry rumbles through his chest. "Ahh, _oh_ yes—if you want—I've got condoms, in the bedroom—"

You shake your head hard in the crook of his neck, panting, "No, I—too much, just stay—"

"Fuck, you feel so—"

"Yes, more, like that, please _yes_ —"

You're stroking in time with his hand against you, in you, pressing and pumping in short, powerful thrusts; you're lightheaded, keening helplessly, filled and needy and shaking...

Your release slams through you, a sudden bright burst that tenses all your muscles and pulls incoherent sounds from your throat—you're still trembling and humming through the aftershocks when he gives a shout of his own, and you feel him pulsing in your hand, hot and wet over your bare stomach.

"— _God_ ," he manages after a long shuddering moment, his voice cracking a little. "That was..."

"So much better than I'd imagined," you finish for him, sighing into his chest as he gently slips his soaked hand away and wipes it on his trousers before bringing it to rest on your hip.

"You really did, though, didn't you?" There's a soft chuckle behind his question. "The other day, in the shop. You were picturing me."

"I didn't _mean_ to say anything." Squirming a little, you lift yourself up on your elbow to look at him; he's still flushed from exertion, and his bright-speckled hair is sticking up in all directions. You smile wryly, reaching around to wipe off your own hand, and take the opportunity to give his arse a quick squeeze.

"But you did," he says, grinning. "And I'm glad."

"Me, too." You lean in close again, and brush your cheek along his to murmur at his ear, "If you don't mind, I think I'll be keeping your number, Detective Inspector..."

"Absolutely," he answers, turning to catch you in a kiss. "Anytime."

 

\-----

 


End file.
